Confessions
by ClaimToFame
Summary: From the basement of an insane asylum, The Phantom sits down with a reporter and confesses his sins. From the deception and seduction of Christine Daae all the way to her untimely death, which the Phantom claims resposibility for.


Part I

"Won't you have a seat?"

I did, accepting the gracious invitation from the gentleman who already sat in a chair opposite the one intended for me with a polite nod. Once settled, I allowed my gaze to alight fully on my host for the first time, and it was with great difficulty that I masked my reaction.

My first thought was to wonder how a being with such deformities could actually survive. In simplest terms, his face was half formed. A sunken socket housed an otherwise exposed eye. Devoid of lids or lashes, the orb protruded grotesquely, rolling about as if haphazardly, looking this way and that. The skin surrounding this feature was gray in color, nearly transparent in places, stretched over the fragile bones beneath as nothing more than a paper-thin covering, a shroud over a skull. Ulcers punctuated the surface of the skin, one in particular that seemed to encompass the area where part of the nose would have once been. An oversized upper lip spread awkwardly, completely engulfing the bottom lip, which along with most of the undefined chin, was continuously sucked into the upper plate, giving the impression that there were no teeth in that side of the mouth whatsoever.

Perhaps most astonishing of all, was not the hideous state of the one side, but rather the absolute flawlessness of the opposite side of his face. For as alarming as the right side surely was, the left was no less than handsome, and by all means would be considered exceptionally well appointed in all aspects. A piercing green eye, heavily lashed and dancing with golden flecks watched me with great interest. The hollow cavern in the center of the face melted into a perfectly shaped half-nose. And the lips on the right side were of appropriate proportions and topped a well-defined chin and strong, angular jaw. The skin was smooth, and while certainly pale from lack of sunlight, still carried the flush of health.

There was no denying it. Were it not for the most unfortunate circumstances that had befallen the right half of this fellow's countenance, he would be a fine specimen.

I let my eyes swoop downward, and took in no other noticeable maladies, and so, feeling that I had already taken far too long of a look, I met his eyes, both of them, and smiled.

"Shall we begin?" I asked as I flipped open my notepad and searched my breast pocket for a pen. Finding it, I poised it over the paper, eager for the story I was about to be told.

There was a pause as the strange man before me bowed his head so that he looked into his lap. Slowly he brought his hands together, pressing them palm to palm, and a low, sinister chuckle rumbled up through his gaunt frame and shook his shoulders.

"Anxious are we?" he inquired, looking up to meet my eyes again, a humorless sneer contorting both sides of his visage. The light in his good eye had gone out, and I felt a jolt of unease at the stunning difference it made in not just the man, but the atmosphere itself. I shifted in my chair and swallowed hard.

"Whenever you are ready, sir," I managed to eek out, sounding like the coward I suddenly was.

"Well," the man said, relaxing his position so that his head rested against the tall back of the leather chair. "I suppose now is as good a time as any." His hands came to rest on the chair's arms; pale, bony hands with slender fingers that wrapped easily around the soft roll of leather. "I suppose we should begin with _her_."

"Her?" I looked up from my notepad, ready to record the name.

Another pause, and this time the man closed his eyes and let out a long, sorrowful sigh. "Christine," he said, his voice a harsh, almost painful whisper. His fingertips dug into the leather.

"The woman you accuse yourself of killing?" I asked, already scribbling the name.

The eyes opened, and once again they had transformed. "Yes," came the nearly inaudible answer as tears slid from the good eye and the bad eye stared out into the unknown.

Part II

"For God's sake, man. Unburden your soul to me." I pleaded with my companion, seeing the agony that was so clearly destroying him inside. He eyed me once more, a mixture of remorse and outright exhaustion mingled in his expression. Then, with one last sigh, he began his tale.

"She was a child when she came to my opera house; an orphaned child with no one to love her. I was a young man then, still in my prime, if you could call it that. Music was my life, my only salvation. I lived for music, and there was no other balm for my constant weeping wound. It ran through my veins and filled my lungs. Music alone was the god to which I prayed.

And then _she_ came. At first she only raised a mild curiosity. Abandoned, unloved, alone in the world. Misery does love company after all."

Here he broke off and smiled, his eyes seeing the images that played out in his mind.

"She was of no particular interest to me until one day, after she had been with us for many months. I was about my usual rounds, trying to catch a glimpse of the progress during rehearsals. Figaro, I believe it was, though don't quote me on that." He smiled across at me as I scratched out the word.

"Understand I had to be careful," he continued. "Discovery would have been disastrous. I was not of them, and their world was not one I aspired to join. They made music for me, and though they were far too proud and foolish to recognize it, _because_ of me. For it was true, I ran the Opera Populaire. Many do not believe it," he paused, lifting an eyebrow at me, "and perhaps you do not either. But it was I who chose which operas, I who cast them, and I who oversaw the rehearsals. And if my wishes were ignored, well…" Another chilling laugh rolled from his chest. "Let's just say that _things_ happened."

"Things like the death of the stagehand, Joseph Buquet," I replied despite my dread of this man. He narrowed his eyes at me, and at first I thought he might go into a rage at my insolence, but instead he smiled wickedly.

"Buquet was a drunkard and a fool," he said dismissively. "Killing him was no great feat. He was quite simply in the wrong place at the wrong time." He leaned back, seeming to find comfort in his past crime. "No, I make no excuses for the killing of Joseph Buquet. The man was a nuisance."

"And Piangi?" I was being far too bold, but I had the strangest desire to see how far I could push my hand. Would the infamous Phantom lose his composure with me all these years later? I imagined him to be quite a fearsome thing in his prime; I would love a glimpse of what he must've been like in all his malevolent glory.

But the man across from me remained passive, at least outwardly. His frail frame, weakened from age, posed no threat in the least. "That will have to wait, young man," he said calmly. "For that is at the crux of this story, is it not?"

I nodded, satisfied for the moment. "Of course," I said. "Please continue."

"Where was I?" he questioned as his one brow drew up where it would normally meet the other, had it existed.

"Figaro," I reminded him.

"Ah, yes. Figaro. At least I believe it was Figaro. It has been quite a long time ago. Have you seen Figaro?"

"I'm afraid not, sir," I answered, getting a bit impatient.

"Pity," he replied.

I waited for him to continue, watching as he stared past me, lost in his thoughts, whatever strange and haunting things they might be. When he did not speak, I cleared my throat.

"You said that Christine had been of no particular interest to you up until that point? What changed?" I skillfully guided him back to the topic at hand.

His gaze came back to me, and he said as if I were the most incompetent fool alive, "Why I heard her sing of course!"

I nodded, encouraging him silently to go on.

"She was so young and untrained, but there was no denying the gift that had been bestowed upon her. I was lost in that instant. My heart, my soul, my very existence went out to that child, and I looked heavenward for the first time in many years and thanked God for sending her to me. For she was to be my instrument, you see? All mine."

"How old was she at the time?" I asked.

"Eight? Nine? I scarcely know." He stopped again, his mouth agape, and he held up one finger as though something had become suddenly clear. "I know what you are thinking, my friend. But you are wrong. I never touched her." The long finger waggled back and forth. "Never. Not even in the later years, when she became a woman." His hand fell back to the arm of the chair and his eyes went far away again. "A _beautiful_ woman."

Fearing I might lose him again, I prompted him to continue. "So you began grooming her then? Training her?"

"It wasn't as simple as that. For as you recall, I could not allow myself to be seen."

"Then however did you manage it?" I asked.

He leaned forward, a look of absolute bliss overcoming his features. "A miracle," he said with great pleasure. "Proof that God had not forgotten me after all. You see, I would soon learn, through my furtive observations, that while on his death bed, her very father had made her a promise."

"What sort of promise?" I inquired, seeing that he was enjoying this exchange. He fed me bits of the story, and delighted in the piqued interest I showed. I humored him therefore, though I truthfully found it tiresome.

"An Angel of Music." He said, and he sat back and smiled with the confidence that he had just revealed to me a nugget of information that was the missing link to all unanswered mysteries.

"I'm afraid I do not understand," I said regretfully.

"Of course you do not understand!" he exclaimed as though he was suddenly insulted by my very presence. "How could you? You know nothing of music!"

I sat dumbstruck, unable to answer the charge. It was true; my knowledge of music was trivial at best.

"Dear old Gustave, her father, on his deathbed had promised her that an Angel of Music would watch over her when he was gone."

"And how does that relate to you?" I asked, still not making the connection.

"My dear boy, I fulfilled the promise. Don't you see? I became her Angel of Music!" He laughed then and clasped his hands together, overjoyed at the memory of his deception. "It could not have been more perfect!"

"I see," I replied, scribbling on my notepad for a moment and then looking up. "And at what point did you begin to think of _killing_ her?"

The effect was all that I had hoped. The maniacal elation was replaced at once by outrage. Shadows cast over the butchered semblance of a face and made it seem all the more horrifying while the unmarred side twisted into an ominous scowl.

"Mind your manners, boy," the man said through clenched teeth, and for an instant I felt my heart race and my guts twist in apprehension, aware that I was facing an admitted murderer.

"My apologies," I said softly, though I thrilled at the rise of temper I had extracted from him.

He seemed appeased, though his menacing glare remained. "I think that is enough for today," he said at last in a very low voice. "Come back tomorrow, boy." And with that he gave a dismissive wave of his hand, leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "Leave me," he muttered softly.

And so I respected his wishes and took my leave, allowing him the privacy to sort out his demons before our next visit.

Part III

The following day I arrived ready and refreshed for a new start. I should pause here to inform the reader that the subject of this interview – the confessor, if you will – was housed in a subterranean room of one of Paris's more progressive asylums. Boasting compassion and care for the feebleminded and other unfortunate souls, the upper floors were indeed most well-attended, and the envy of madhouses the worldwide no doubt. However, below the surface, there was a great change in atmosphere. Those interred in the bowels of the place were deemed unfit for even an asylum.

Interestingly enough, my host was anything but feebleminded. He was as lucid and sharp of wit as any man I had met, and so his plight seemed doubly harsh. Many down in that place had no idea who or where they were. But for a thinking, feeling, comprehending human being, well it must have been maddening. And after all was said and done, perhaps that was the plan. One either entered the place insane or became so inclined after prolonged exposure. Maybe it was his face that gave rise to questions of his mental state. For how could one so horribly malformed be in his right mind?

Or perhaps it was the suicide attempt, and the insistence that he had single-handedly caused the untimely death of the Opera Populaire's most illustrious star and former wife of the Vicomte de Chagny? It was true, he had been found with his throat slashed and a stout blade in his grasp, gasping for his final breaths. But did this make one truly mad? Had not sane people been driven to the point of desperation before?

And what if his story was true? Most dismissed it without question, but what if this self-proclaimed Phantom, already the known murderer of two men, not to mention the dozens killed that infamous night beneath the chandelier, what if he were telling the truth? It would be a grand story indeed, and I was virtually chomping at the bit to get back to it.

As an attendant led me down to the gloomy quarters of my subject, I had the forethought to inquire about a name. In my haste the day before, and understandable haze given the gentleman's appearance and manner, I had completely forgotten to ask him his name. It was inexcusable to say the least. How does one interview a person and not ask the single most important question of all?

"He's called Erik," the rather hulking, lumbering man who escorted me down said in answer as he rattled a set of large skeleton keys in an attempt to open one of several barred doors throughout the underground passageways.

"Just Erik?" I asked. "No surname?"

The lock gave way, and the man removed the key and shoved the door open. "Just Erik," he said gruffly over his shoulder at me. "This way," he hunched his shoulders and stooped through the doorway leaving me to follow in his wake. "Pull the door shut for God's sake!" he bellowed back at me. I retreated two steps and pulled the heavy grate closed with a loud clang. "You'd have this whole lot running loose, would you?" He shook his head at my incompetence and then turned and his massive bulk slumped onward.

At last, we arrived at the cell of my subject. _Erik_. I wondered if it would be impertinent to address him by the name as he had given no hint of it to me, and might not wish me to be so overly familiar. I decided in favor of "Sir", which was always polite and kept the formality between us that seemed appropriate. For he was an imposing sort of fellow; there was an air about him, and if I was honest with myself, I'd say that I admired him in many respects.

Admired and dreaded, I amended as I came face to face with him once again. Oh that face! It was other-worldly, almost impossible to comprehend. Two halves of the same entity, but one as flawed as the other was perfect. Dreadful, simply dreadful.

He stood erect in the center of his cell, a smugness in his smile, if that was possible. He was undoubtedly the king of his domain, such as it were. Unlike the other barren cells in this place, his was appointed with fine furnishings and any luxury he could want. Drawings covered the stone walls, lamps glowed softly from the corners, and most impressive of all, a small grand piano stood in one corner of the room, littered with sheets of music, some apparently works in progress. An inkwell and a quill rested on top of one stack.

"Welcome," Erik said, and his voice was so alarmingly clear and crisp that I felt a shiver run up my spine. "Do sit down. Would you like some tea?"

The last thing I wanted was tea, but I dared not decline. "Yes," I heard myself say. "That would be nice."

He busied himself at a small stove along the right hand wall, and then returned to the sitting area with a tarnished silver tray bearing two chipped china teacups and an elegant little teapot that was stained from age.

"Here we are," he said, setting the tray on the small marble topped table between the two leather chairs. His hands shook ever so slightly, causing the cups to clink and clatter on the tray. When he attempted to pour the tea, he was so unsteady that more wound up in the saucers than the cups.

"Allow me, Sir," I said taking the handle of the teapot. He relinquished his grasp easily with a sigh and sat in his chair as I poured.

"Thank you," he said softly when I presented him with his cup, though he did not look up at me, and I got the distinct feeling that he was embarrassed. I settled into my own chair, cradling my cup in my palms, blowing on the steam that rose from the tea and wondered how I could have been frightened of this man.

We took a few moments to sip our tea, allowing the warmth to seep into our bodies and the calming effects to take over. I took it upon myself to look anywhere but at my host, not wanting to offend him, nor wanting particularly to confront that unfortunate visage at any cost. I could feel his eyes on me though, not constantly, but occasionally, as though he was attempting to draw my gaze to him. I refused to oblige.

At last, after our cups were drained and returned to the tray, he cleared his throat and I instinctively reached for my pad and pen.

"Now then," he said, and I noticed the velvet richness of his voice now. He seemed as content as a cat settling in for a nap and I wouldn't have been surprised in the least to hear a soft purr when he spoke. "Where were we?"

This was a tedious subject as when we had left off I had angered him with a question of his murderous intent in regards to the young woman, Christine. Rather than incite his rage with this sort of inquiry again, I wisely chose my words.

"The Angel of Music?" I asked carefully, reading the last note I had made.

"Ah yes," he said resting his head against the back of his chair and lacing his fingers together. "As I said it was all too perfect. The child was primed for my intervention, for my attentions, and she didn't even question it. I had ways, you see, of being heard but not seen. One does not spend the large part of his life in a place without discovering all of its intimate secrets." He smiled at me here, and I felt the cold lump of dread returning, driving away the lingering effects of my tea.

"She often went to a small room, a chapel of sorts, and prayed for her father. This is where I first observed her and where," he broke off and gave a low chuckle, "where I answered her prayers."

"Answered her prayers? As the Angel of Music, you mean? It is a wonder you did not frighten her to death."

"And perhaps I did, at first," he said with a nod. "But the poor thing's loneliness over came her fear. She _needed_ me, you understand. She needed _me_."

I watched in horror as the memories filled Erik's eyes with a fevered look, something akin to lust. But no; it was unthinkable.

"And so you became her companion?" I asked, the very idea making me quite uneasy. "Under the pretense that you were her promised Angel?"

"You make it sound so indecent!" he erupted, sitting up straight in his chair, his hands coming down to the arms with a thud. "Is what I did _indecent_?" He stared at me, both eyes equally wild, the knuckles of his hands growing stark white from the power of his grip. "_Is it?" _He hissed, sending a spray of saliva from his mouth that cascaded down his chin and alighted as droplets on his lapel.

"Only you can answer that, Sir," I said as calmly as I could. My heart was thudding so hard in my chest that I feared it might burst.

The tottering old man with the teacups was gone. Here was my fabled Phantom, once again rising to the occasion.


End file.
